


The First Two Times

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Post-War, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-20
Updated: 2008-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Exhausted and in shock after the final battle, Ron and Hermione find sanctuary in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory.





	The First Two Times

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** (I submitted this, and you forwarded it to mench for beta-ing and this is the now-revised/edited version.)

  
Author's notes: Thanks to mench for the beta work and the encouragement!    


* * *

…

 

_This story takes place immediately after the events of chapter thirty-six of Deathly Hallows._

 

Never have the stairs to the top of Gryffindor tower been so difficult to climb.  It’s late, or early, or I don’t even know what it is, but my watch tells me it’s 9:00 in the morning, and I have not closed my eyes for at least twenty-seven hours.  Fatigue does not come close to describing how I feel.  Come to think of it, how I feel might just be indescribable.  My feet are protesting each step of the staircase, their pounding matches what’s happening in my skull, and the only part of me that feels good is my left hand—and that’s because it is firmly gripping Hermione’s right.  I grabbed it just after we helped Harry return the Elder wand to its rightful resting place, which was just another bizarre and horrifying event to add to everything else we’ve seen and done this past year—this past crazy day.  Just minutes ago I pulled Hermione through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, and I am pulling her up the stairs to the boys’ dorms right now, because letting go is simply not an option.

  

We’re quiet, the three of us, because there’s everything to say and no words to say it all with.  Reaching the top, I see my bed, my beautiful four-poster bed, and my eyes glaze like I’m going to cry.  It’s madness, that is, but everything around me has been so mad it’s impossible to be sane.  I pull Hermione toward it, not hard, because she seems perfectly content with my taking her with me.  Hermione, without a word, lets go of my hand to get out her little beaded bag and starts fishing out pyjamas, toothbrushes, toothpaste and towels, and we divide them properly between the three of us.  Harry grunts a sound at her that I think is supposed to sound like “thanks,” and Hermione nods.  I pick up my things and go to follow Harry when I hear Hermione say “Oh.”

  

I turn to her, hoping she’ll explain because asking is beyond my capabilities at the moment.

  

She tucks her hair behind her ears nervously.  “I just followed you here without thinking.  I probably should go to the girls’ dormitory to my own bed, shouldn’t I?”

  

My brain just barely processes her words and I feel myself begin to shake.  She cannot leave.  She simply can’t.  I shake my head at her, and her eyes widen in concern because there is no way she can miss the rest of me shaking too.

  

“Ron, are you alright?”

  

I just keep shaking my head.

  

She walks over and takes my hand again.  “You’re trembling.”

  

This time I manage to nod.

  

“Do you want me to stay?”

  

I nod again.

  

“Okay.  I’ll use the bathroom when you two are done.”

  

I nod again and make my way to the bathroom, and I am so incredibly relieved that she is staying that it slows the shaking.  I wash up at the sink next to where Harry is washing up.  I stare at his reflection in the mirror as I towel off and begin to brush my teeth, and my thoughts begin spinning again.  He’s brushing his teeth now, too.  In the last few hours Harry walked into the Forbidden Forest to allow Voldemort to kill him, then he was dead on the ground at Hagrid’s feet, then he was gone, and then he was back and Voldemort was dead, and now he is brushing his teeth.  He meets my eye and stops brushing, but doesn’t speak.  We stare at each other in the mirror for a minute, then he nods and I know that he knows that there is everything to say and absolutely no words to say it with.  I finish brushing and pull on my pyjamas, still shaking a bit as I reenter the bedroom.

  

Hermione looks at me carefully as she passes on her way into the bathroom.  Harry climbs into his bed and pulls his curtains shut, and I’m relatively certain that he’s asleep before he even makes it under the covers.  I stare at my bed and Hermione’s discomfort comes back to me.  Dean, Seamus and Neville are all somewhere in the castle and could at any point want their beds, so Hermione will have to stay with me.  I hadn’t thought of that in my panic when I thought she might leave, and I know that I really ought to tell her that it’s fine if she wants her own bed, but the second I think that I start really shaking again.  I’m selfish but right now I really need to know she’s all right.  I will simply have to make up for it some other time because if she changes her mind and leaves, I will collapse.

  

She steps out of the bathroom and I almost feel a small smile on my face because she is here, and she is beautiful.  She’s wearing thin cotton pyjamas that are styled like a man’s but made in a soft pink with little flowers on them.  I’ve seen her in them before, loads of times while we were camping in that tent, but they look different here somehow.  She’s tiny in them as I stare at her.   The first time she was tiny was at Malfoy Manor, but I cannot bear to think about that.  Really, she’s not actually all that tiny, not compared with some other girls, but she’s tiny here in my room, walking over to my bed.  She is tiny next to me and rather daunting because she is quiet, too, and this makes her seem more tiny.  I know the sight of her body well and have imagined the size and shape of each and every part of her for years, but I never really thought of her as tiny because when she speaks and reads and writes and casts spells and eats and worries and laughs and just lives, she is so large with life itself it defies the package all that magic comes in.  But here, as she puts her wand under my pillow and the little bag on the headboard, all I can think is that she is tiny and that I need to wrap myself around her and make sure she is safe.

  

She takes my hand, then stares up at me, her brown eyes warm with worry.  I know she can feel me shaking.  Yesterday she nearly drowned in burning gold and now she is concerned with my inability to keep it together in the comfort of my Hogwarts dorm.  How can I tell her how amazing that is?  She pulls me toward the bed and I have no choice but to climb onto it, and together we pull back the covers to slip into its warmth.  We’re so close together, still sitting up, and I reach around and pull closed all the curtains, creating a pleasant dimness with the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and she reaches under the pillow to get her wand.  She starts putting up all the usual protective spells and I let her, even though I know they’re not necessary for keeping out Death Eaters, or the Ministry, or least of all any Muggles.  

  

It’s nice to think that no one can find us here.  Here we’re safe and I can hold her.  Here there are no exploding walls that kill, that could have killed any one of us.  Here there are no eyes that stare without seeing.  I shudder at that.

  

We lie down, our heads on the same pillow, facing each other, so close.  She is beautiful and I cannot stop my arm from reaching over her and grabbing around her back to pull her body even closer so the shaking becomes less, and we stare at each other as she takes one hand and gently traces my nose, my cheek, my mouth.  We are so close that I am breathing in the air she is breathing out.  We are sharing the air, and the shaking is less now because I know I am breathing in all that is good from her.  Earlier she battled a madwoman who almost once killed her, but now I can feel Hermione’s goodness in her breath and I need her; I need to touch her.  I need.

  

Seconds later we are still breathing the same air but through our noses because our mouths are joined.  Her lips are soft but strong in meeting mine, and I taste her mouth and drink her in.  We have seen greed and envy, destruction and death, so much death, too much death to bear, and my tongue swirls in Hermione’s mouth desperate to taste the goodness there because it is in there, we both know it is, and if I can taste it, if I can drink it in then I’ll know that life is worth this.  She makes life worth this.

  

My hands grab at her, pulling her closer and closer because there is no way she can be close enough now.  She pulls and grabs and unbuttons me because she needs to feel warmth and skin and heartbeats, too.  Her top is gone even though I don’t remember taking it off her, so I guess she did.  I need to feel her warmth, and the softness and roundness of her breasts are perfect beyond all my younger dreams.  I taste her breasts, swirling my tongue around her nipples and sucking them so gently into my mouth, and I can live like this, love her like this forever.  I can barely think when I feel her reach a hand into my pyjama bottoms and hold my cock.  I am completely hard and I cannot stop myself from groaning into the underside of her breast as she strokes me softly and unsteadily.  I need this; I need her.

  

I lick and suck my way back over her chest, her delicate neck, her jaw, to her mouth and our tongues meet again as she strokes me still.  I reach to pull her pyjama bottoms off and she raises her hips to help me, and then my hands are all over her hips and her thighs and her arse. She is so round, so soft, and so smooth, and I start thrusting slightly into her hand because I cannot stop myself.  Her body is amazing in my hands, so tiny, so soft, so round, and so strong, and she has one hand sliding over and with the skin up and down my cock, her fingers playing over my head, and her other hand is everywhere and nowhere, grabbing and squeezing my muscles and skin.  I stop kissing her and pull back enough to open my eyes, and her eyes are warm but there are tears. Our hands keep moving as we stare at one another until the tears in her eyes build, so then I kiss her eyes.  I just keep kissing all over her face and swallowing her tears, and with one hand I squeeze and rub her breast while with the other I slowly move my fingers into the patch of hair between her legs.

  

Her flesh is soft under the wiry hair, then I feel a slit and my fingers find a wet heat that makes my head spin and my hips jerk forward in her stroking hand.  I move one finger slowly back and forth across her heat; her body rocks to match mine and we are gently thrusting into one another’s hands.  She stops crying, and I greedily kiss her mouth, plunging my tongue in fully as I allow one finger to dip and enter into her.  I swallow her gasp and she rocks her hips harder.  My tongue thrusts in and out of the wet heat of her mouth as my finger plunges in and out of her cunt, and she strokes me harder and I cannot think, and I cannot think because I can barely breathe.  I need.

  

She takes her free hand and grabs the back of my neck as she rolls forcefully onto her back, pulling me on top of her.  I quickly prop up my weight with one elbow as my other hand pushes against the mattress, and although I am briefly sad that I have lost contact with her tight, wet heat, she takes the hand holding my dripping cock and guides me to her entrance.  We stare at one another, both panting heavily.  I am not shaking now and she is not crying although her eyes are still wet, and she opens her legs so wide, wider than I ever thought possible, and wraps them around my waist, pulling me closer.  She is so open, so beautiful. 

  

I keep my eyes open and kiss her, and she keeps her eyes open and kisses me back, rocking her hips slightly to let me feel her slickness, and I move my hips forward and downward, staring at her warm brown eyes.  The head of my cock is in her, _in_ her, _in_ _Hermione_ , and she is breathing heavily as she rocks her hips further, taking another inch of me into her.  I pull back slightly and feel her wetness coating my tip, then press in further than the last.  Hermione closes her eyes and breathes deeply, squeezing her legs around my back and rocking her hips again, urging me in further.  I pull back then quickly move forward, then do that again, and again, and again, until I am buried in her.  My cock is hard and hot and buried in Hermione and it is so good; it is all that is good.  I thrust into her again and again because I can feel it, feel her, feel her goodness and if I can just keep thrusting into this tight wet heat, this bliss, then I will know that everything is okay.  Death is not here; death can’t touch us here.  Here is life, and it is so, so good.  It is in Hermione, _I am in Hermione_ , and she holds me tight, rocks her hips, groans and gasps in my ear because she knows that this is so good.  This is what life should be.  

  

I thrust and thrust and I cannot think.  There is a tight heat, a wet friction all around my cock and a beautiful soft roundness in my arms and against my chest and I keep thrusting as I feel my belly tighten, until it all squeezes tight, tighter than Apparition, then I explode into her.  

  

Hermione holds me, cradles me in her thighs.  I can barely breathe and my weight is on my elbows because I cannot let myself crush her no matter how much I want to collapse.  She shushes me in my ear and kisses my face.  I lower my face to hers, pressing my cheek to hers, and feel wetness, and I try to look to see if she is crying again but I can’t see because everything is blurry; these are my tears.  I roll slightly to the side and fall heavily onto the bed, crushing her body to mine, and since it’s impossible to stop these tears I just let them go.  Hermione’s crying, too, and our tears are soaking the pillow between us but that’s okay, I can deal with the wetness; I can deal with anything, just as long as I can keep myself wrapped around Hermione.

  

We both calm down at some point, though I’m not sure when, but I know we’re better because Hermione’s head is on my chest as I lie on my back, my arms still around her.  Her breathing is steady, and if I tilt my head awkwardly to the side and back I can look down upon her face.  She’s sleeping, I think.  Her face is relaxed now, her lips parted, that little crease between her brows is smooth, and I like seeing her face like this because it reminds me of her sleeping on the night we got to Shell Cottage, when I knew she would be okay. 

  

I feel myself succumbing to my exhaustion, and even though she is asleep I try to tell her about all I owe her, about all her goodness, about how I need her, because there is everything to say, but it all comes out as one word, “Love.”

      

************************

      

At some point as I drifted into a deep slumber, Ron whispered the word “Love” in my ear, and hours later in the dimmed sunlight of his curtained Gryffindor bed I am letting it play in my mind.  I don’t know if he said it as part of “I love you” or even as part of “I would love a sandwich right about now,” but I don’t care because it came through to me like a dream, and even if he weren’t saying it to me or about me it is every bit as real and as true.  Love is what we have; love is what is left after all we have faced; love is how we will heal.

  

I am on my side and Ron is spooning my body next to his, his arms cradling but not crushing me to him in his sleep.  I can see my watch so I know we’ve been asleep for several hours, but exhausted as I am I cannot fall back asleep because my brain is showing a constant replay of what happened before we fell asleep.  We had sex; we made love.  Neither term accurately describes what we shared, and although the latter is closer, the former is equally true.  We fell apart on each other, in each other, and reached down and found what was the best of ourselves to give to one another; we put ourselves back together again, at least for a while.  That’s the only way I can make sense of it.

  

I never thought I would have chosen to have sex so quickly upon finally establishing a romantic relationship, but as nothing in our relationship has ever been easy or normal, what has happened here between us is only fitting.  Perfect, actually.  We were both in shambles when we got here—Ron started shaking and I cast Muggle-repelling charms on the bed—but we both understood.  Ron was so hurt, so aching and so raw, that I would have done anything to soothe his pain, and he mine.  There was no need for either of us to question, to waver, to doubt or practice restraint.  I needed to touch him, hold him, feel his heat and his heartbeat, assure myself of both our lives, of life, with his body.  I need.

  

These thoughts of sex, of making love, do give me pause, and I shift a bit to grab my wand and cast a contraceptive charm, a charm I’ve never done before, hoping that a five-hour delay won’t be too late.  I count the days of my cycle and ovulation is unlikely, so I hope for the best; I do not want a baby right now but if it were to happen, from this, so be it.  As I shift I feel how sore I am between my legs; I know that the pleasure of being with him came from the closeness more than from pure sexual excitement.  I am raw; he was so large and so long and so hard inside of me, tearing through my hymen and crashing into me so steadily, so heavily, that I gasped and groaned with each of this thrusts.  It was pain; it was the best pleasure I have ever known.  I would have endured the stretching and rawness forever if he needed me to, because I needed that too, and I knew as he filled me again and again that I would have done anything to make sure we never stopped moving together.  I roll toward him a little more, hoping to ease the aching I feel.

  

In sleep we have kicked the covers to our feet, and in this new position I can see Ron’s body, naked and warm and still holding mine, and he is beautiful.  He is so large, his torso and limbs so long and his muscles so hard, and he possesses so much power in his every movement that I am awed by him.  I have imagined his body, every part of it, for years, but those imagined memories do not hold a candle this physique.  He is larger than I had thought, all of him, and although it is a cliché it is true: he is larger than life.  When he forgets himself in passion—in anger, fighting, laughing, in love—he betrays his size as if no form can contain him.  He appeared this way to me as he shouted that he would take my place in Malfoy Manor, as I heard his voice through the floor and through the terrible pain, and again a few hours later at Shell Cottage as he dug Dobby’s grave and then held me as I trembled.  He has no idea of this.  Hours ago, I felt the silencing charm Voldemort set on us all; Ron broke it.  In his passion, in his anger, in his righteousness, in his love for his friend and in his magic, he broke that spell to give a voice to us all.

  

My eyes travel over him, devouring the lines and subtle contours, the muscles so much larger, longer, harder than mine and the softest of skin, dappled generously with freckles.  I stare at them and connect them like dots, lifting a finger to lightly trace a pattern on his shoulder and upper chest that spells his name, then mine.  I almost lost him; I almost lost everything.  The spell that destroyed that corridor could have destroyed any of us, all of us.  I trace our names in his freckles again and marvel that I can do this for the rest of my life.  It is marvelous that I have the rest of my life, the rest of his life, when I almost had nothing, was nothing.  I can feel my body begin to tremble, to shake the way his did just a few hours ago, and my hand flattens against his chest because I need to feel his heartbeat; I need to feel his heat.  I need. 

  

My hand and eyes travel lower, toying with the whiteness of his belly and the bright hair that grows around his navel, then trails down to surround and cradle his now-flaccid penis.  It is remarkable how different it is like this, gentle and soft, as compared with the hard heat I grasped a few hours ago.  I draw a finger lightly down his length and it jumps in response, so I trace it again.  By the fourth pass I can see it is starting to harden, leaning to the side and getting broader, wider and longer, and I am lost in the changes I am seeing until, many fuller and heavier strokes later, he is completely erect and his body shifts.  I look up to seeing him staring down at me.

  

His voice is casual despite the gravity in his stare.  I’m sure he can feel me trembling against him.  “All right?”

  

I nod, wishing I knew what to say, because there is so much I want to tell him but I don’t think there are words enough to articulate it all.  He pulls me closer, bringing me onto his body, his arms grabbing me tightly as he brings my face to his for a wet, deep kiss.  I lose myself in his touch, his mouth, his breath mingling with mine as I feel my blood start to race through my veins.  We stop and he looks down at me, then strokes my cheek with the back of a finger.  He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out.  I don’t need to hear anything right now; I feel what’s between us; I feel him.

  

I kiss his chest in response, letting my hands crawl up to his shoulders, then one to the nape of his neck.  He is still staring at my body, his gaze both intense and warm, until his eyes travel down from my breasts to my center.  I see a slight frown begin to crease his brow, and before I can ask he speaks.  “Is that blood, Hermione?”

  

I look down at myself and can see a smear of it on my inner thigh.  I nod.

  

“Are you hurt?”  I shake my head, and he speaks again.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m so sorry.”  He holds me tighter again, kissing the top of my head.

  

I find my voice.  “Don’t worry, it’s normal.”  He sighs heavily.  “It was bound to happen soon anyway, wasn’t it?”  I look up at him and he almost smiles.  Looking back down I can see that he is still erect, and I move a hand down to gently stroke him again.

  

“Hermione.”  He sounds as if he’s pleading, but I don’t know if it’s for me to stop or to do more.  I continue for another minute until he pulls back and sits up, forcing me to sit up as well.  He grabs my beaded bag.  “Do you have any dittany left?”

  

I shake my head.  “I doubt it.  I think we used it all after Gringott’s.”  By the time I finish saying this, though, he has retrieved his wand and is summoning the bottle of dittany.  Catching then uncorking it, he sticks a long finger in and runs it around the inside of the bottle, coating it with what’s left of the healing potion.

  

He looks at me, his eyes wide and warm.  “Lie back.”  We shift around until I am leaning on the pillow against the headboard and he is settled, sitting between my legs.  He looks down at me, at my open thighs, and slowly takes his dittany-coated finger and runs it gently, so very gently, around my entrance.  I surprise myself by not feeling the least self-conscious.  I do not feel at all exposed; under Ron’s gaze and in his care I feel open, trusting, and trusted in return.

  

The dittany works immediately and I sigh, rather loudly.  He looks back at my face and we stare, and again without questions or doubts or restraint we know what we are about, and he moves his finger inside of me, spreading both the dittany and incredible pleasure.  The shaking is better.  He continues to stroke his finger in and out of me as he leans over to kiss me again, and I kiss him hungrily as I reach out to caress his still-hard cock.  He braces himself with one hand on the headboard above me, and I am slowly sinking down to the mattress as he kisses me and fucks me with his finger.  His breaths are coming faster and deeper as I stroke him, and I am shaking slightly so I grab his shoulder hard.  I need him inside of me—his finger, his tongue, his cock.  I need.

  

I am entirely surprised when he picks me up and turns us over; he is on his back and I am straddling him.  He is so large and I must open my legs so wide to fit my knees astride him, and I want to be open over him so he can fit his hard length inside of me; I need to be open.  He grabs his cock and moves it so I can feel the tip of it at my entrance; he lets go by degrees as I lower myself onto him, feeling him stretch me again beyond what I had ever thought was possible.  There is no pain with the stretching now; I am filled with him and he is moving within me; I will move like this forever over him, for him, for us.  He takes my breast in his mouth and his tongue swirls over my nipple as I move up and down his cock, coating his hardness with my own excitement and grabbing his shoulders so tightly my knuckles are white.  He takes his mouth off to move to my other breast, and I ride him up and down and it is so good; he is moving in and out of me, filling me, filling me with all that is good inside of him, inside of me.  

  

I am gasping and groaning louder and louder, my voice, my limbs, my thoughts are out of my control as I move over him.  He is so good; he is so good and true and trusting; he is love to me, he is love and I will move over him forever to let him know I feel the goodness and the truth in him, that I know I am taking his goodness and truth into me.  I look down to see him staring at the juncture of my thighs where we are joined; I reach down to press a finger to my clit and start rubbing in circles as I move up and down, and he moves in and out and in again and the world is collapsing into my stomach as I scream, my body convulsing over his.   I feel him grab my hips and he is moving me over him and thrusting into me until I hear him groan my name desperately; “Hermione” rings in my ears as he crushes me to his body, until I am wrapped in his strength, his size, his heat.

  

It is several minutes before we are breathing normally, and I look up to see his eyelids drooping.  He is nearly asleep, his face relaxed and all the pain has gone, for now at least, and I need to tell him what he means to me, to the world; I need to tell him everything but I am falling asleep too, and the only word that comes out is “Love.”

     

-End

 

 


End file.
